‘I’m down on my knees…’
By the roots of my hair some god got hold of me. I sizzled in his blue volts like a desert prophet. – Sylvia Plath, ‘The Hanging Man’, Ariel (1965) Words are like people. They flake when you need them. ‘Pain words are lacking,’ Virginia Woolf wrote. ‘There should be cries, cracks, fi
Does your ‘masculinity’ need to seduce me?
‘That one.’ ‘Straight.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Damn.’ I’m sitting in the smoking area of a club. I’m surrounded by a mash-up of oversized shirts, denim, fine-artists, dramatists, bob-cuts, and dope. ‘But he’s coming over.’ Amid empty benches, he sits beside me. I notice o
THE EYING OF MY SCARS
“Collection of Sylvia Plath’s possessions to be sold at auction” reads Tuesday’s Guardian. Up for grabs are the proof copy of Plath’s novel The Bell Jar (1963) and her pre-publication author’s copy. Both are written on: her proof edition is “carefully corrected”, and her author’s c
